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“Don’t worry.” Gerry took his weight, like a brother-in-arms. “I’m going to take good care of you. You’ve got such a wonderful light, and it’s going to shine forever.”
Chapter 22
Fear wanted to ice her gut, her brain, her throat. She shut it down.
“Baxter?”
“I copy. I’m going the wrong fucking way.” She heard the clashing chorus of horns as he maneuvered. “Shit. Fuck. Heading back. I’m better than ten blocks away, Dallas. Goddamn it.”
“Parking port,” she snapped at Roarke. “Closest to the data club, on the south.”
“Getting it.” He already had his book out, keying in for the data.
“Feeney! He’s got Trueheart. Let’s move, let’s move. Yancy, get that image out. Now!”
“E-Z Park, on Twelfth, between Third and Fourth,” Roarke told her as cops bolted for the door en masse.
“All units, all units, officer in distress. Code Red.” She relayed the location. “Suspect ID’s as Gerald Stevenson aka Steve Audrey. Image forthcoming. Subject is believed to be responsible for multiple murders. May be armed.”
Her communicator squawked with responses as units began to roll. She paused only to bore one long look at Jessie as the woman rushed into the hallway.
“He’s got one of my men. Anything happens to my officer. Anything, I’m coming back for you.”
Still snapping out orders and data, she dived into the elevator.
“Quiet.” She tossed up a hand to stop the chatter, heard Gerry’s voice, light and cheerful.
Nope, no problem. My friend here’s been partying pretty hard. Just going to take him home.
Parking . . . facil . . . level . . .
She closed down another leap of fear as she heard Trueheart’s weak, slurred voice.
That’s right. Got a ride parked. Let’s get you in. Maybe you should just lie down in the back. Don’t worry about a thing, I’m going to take care of you. Just relax.
“He’s got him in the vehicle. Baxter?”
“Six blocks from the port. Got some jams on Third, breaking through.”
“Tell me what kind of vehicle, Trueheart. Tell me.”
“Itza van,” he muttered as if he’d heard the order. It’s . . . dark. Tired.
“Stay with me.” Eve raced out of the building. “You stay with me.”
She jumped into the passenger seat. It never occurred to her to drive—not with Roarke there. He was better at it, faster and slicker. Without a word, Peabody leaped into the back while Feeney and McNab ran to another car.
“He’s thinking, he’s still thinking like a cop.” She swiped at the sweat on her face as Roarke screamed away from the curb. “He’s left his communicator open. Peabody, monitor his transmissions. That’s all I want you to do? Understood?”
“Yes, sir. I’m on him. They’re on the move, Lieutenant. I can hear the engine, some traffic sounds. He’s got the radio on. Sirens. I hear sirens.”
Come on, come on, come on, Eve chanted in her head while she continued to relay orders. “Subject is driving a van. Exiting parking facility.”
Roarke punched into vertical, pushing the clunky police issue into a stomach pitching lift to skim over a clump of Rapid Cabs, and simultaneously wrenching to the left to take a corner at a speed that had Peabody bouncing in the back like dice in a cup.
The tires kissed the top of an umbrella on the corner glide-cart, then hit the street again.
“Holy God,” Peabody managed as buildings whizzed by.
